


F.A.L.L.

by Nemamka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - War, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Blood, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Near Future, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Weapons of Mass Destruction, everybody lives on the same continent, fictive nation, figure skating references, near future could mean tomorrow or in a 100 years, you may guess which it resembles but don't be surprised if you see incongruous city names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemamka/pseuds/Nemamka
Summary: Look out for the signs.My name is Katsuki Yuuri. I’m 21. I’m a dime-a-dozen BSc student at Radionova University. At least… I was.I’m a soldier now, just enlisted.It’s a long story.





	F.A.L.L.

_[And I scream from the top of my lungs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tnFy1luxL0A) _

_What’s going on?!_

 

He was 25 when the war broke out.

Twenty-five, in good shape—he was a fan of all sports, really, and he had all the opportunities to try a little bit of each he fancied—already a trained army officer, well-educated in world history, strategy, and—out of personal diligence—science, not to mention his undying love for literature and music. He had been making his own name, having published his dissertation on the development of bulletproof devices, participated in and spoken up for social protests, and graduated Radionova University with the highest average score in the history of the military institution. However, most people still only knew his face because he posed with his chin high and his smile wide each time he was photographed with his father.

Twenty-five, handsome and progressive, and not a single person would have cared who he was, had that father not been the leader of the national army.

The President himself slit General Mikhail Nikiforov’s throat on live television.

They had had their disagreements, for sure. The most important of them— _The Cleansing_ , they called it, a task having been thrusted upon the military—had apparently proved insoluble, so President Prant had decided to quite simply end that debate. He reinstituted and claimed the position of commander-in-chief, and declared the start of his great program; eliminating each and every person who didn’t fit his image of the ideal citizen. Starting from the coastlines inward, the examination—with immediate execution on refusal—was given in order to all divisions.

The people fought back, and that was how the nation got torn in half. Families, neighborhoods, entire cities, and the whole army divided; those who wanted to stay alive fled to the center of the country, those who wanted to fight for them gathered around them, and the _cleansers_ were working their way in to make that defending circle smaller and smaller. The front line was a literal ring of fire, threatening to close in on the innocent souls.

He was twenty-five, now an orphan, and every person who spoke to him from that day on seemed to know only one question to ask him.

_Whose side are you on?_

As if it were something he hadn’t decided long ago.

As if it could even cross his mind to kill somebody just because they were different. Well, for some it did, so who knows, maybe the question was legitimate, even logical, to ask.

But his answer was the same as his parents’, and it was slowly killing him that he never got to tell them how proud he was to wear their names above his pocket flap. 

He was twenty-five, and that lively spark he’d always had in his blue eyes when he smiled faded into a cold glint, just in the course of a few weeks. He noticed in the mirror, and he couldn’t do a goddamned thing about it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The Free Army welcomed him with open arms under General Nikolai Plisetsky’s command.

 

_For a revolution._


End file.
